


The Night That the Toes Came Out in Cascade

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 05:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poker game with the guys goes a little differently than usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night That the Toes Came Out in Cascade

Date: 1/12/98 

Disclaimers: None, they never touch each other above the waist, for most of it. 

Notes: This is dedicated to Varoneeka who, when I told her about the evening I had, said, "Hm. Sounds like fodder for a little fanfic there." I think she was talking about Treksmut, but I decided to use it on Sen-smut instead, 'cause you guys are great! 

As always, many thanks to Bonita for betareading (even though she was deadly ill with a cold - Don't forget the o.j., sweetie!!). 

Warnings: Um, Pedophilia?? No, no!! That's a joke!!   


What? When was I the most turned on? Hmmm, let's see. Oh, yeah! I got it. 

## "The Night That the Toes Came Out in Cascade"

(copyright 1998 by Regina Harley)  


That's what I call it anyway. 

It was Friday night. The monthly poker game was at our house. To say I was freaking a little about accidentally revealing our newly-minted relationship would be a bit of an understatement. 

"Okay, we got chip and dip, sandwich makings, beer soda, ashtrays, cards and chips, the air cleaner's going full-blast... We missing anything, Chief?" Jim asked me, rubbing his hands together. 

I replied, "Yeah, our sanity. What were we thinking, having the game here tonight!?" 

He took my face in his hands and said, "Calm down. Now, what's the problem?" 

Well, of course the problem was that I could barely keep my hands off the guy. Two and a half years I'd been waiting for this. And now it was mine, *he* was mine. I wanted to take about six months off and never leave the apartment. Okay, so we *weren't* leaving the apartment, but having a group of cigar-smoking, testosterone-laden, closed-minded cops over was not exactly what I had in mind for the evening. Yeah, I suppose closed-minded is a bit harsh. For cops, these guys were all right, but that didn't mean I wanted to spend the evening with them when I could be alone in bed with my heart's (not to mention my cock's) desire. And they may be able to deal with it, but they did have a weakness for gossip, and I wasn't willing to trust their ability to keep their mouths shut. 

When I explained my problem, Jim didn't seem too sympathetic. Sure, Mr. Stone-face would have no problem, *he* wasn't the one whose every thought shone out like a beacon, ...as long as he didn't stand up, of course. (evil snicker) His cock was not nearly as disciplined as his face. I could almost always 'get a rise' out of him. 

Well, anyway, they all start showing up around seven. Simon got there first. Always the thoughtful one, he brought a couple of six-packs and sat down with his cigar nearest the air-cleaner. By seven-thirty they were all there and we got started. Now, I'm not being modest when I say I usually do pretty well. Oh, sure, sometimes I lose, but more often than not I finish ahead of the game. So once the comfortable rhythms of dealing and betting and wisecracks started, I began to think everything was going to be all right. Jim wasn't touching me any more than normal and any signs of nervousness on my end were being attributed to the game. 

Then it happened. We had been playing for about a half an hour and I was beginning to relax. Jim was on my right, Rafe on my left, and Simon, Joel, Brown, and Jones were across the table from us. 

What with all the bodies and the smoke and Jim had started a fire in the fireplace, it was pretty warm in there so I had kicked off my shoes and socks. 

Then I felt it. Something touched my right foot. I quickly glanced at Jim. He had his poker face on, but I could tell by the slight flaring of his nostrils that he was the culprit. 

At first it was just a warm presence next to my foot. His foot was also bare and it felt good against mine. Kind of like the comforting weight of a sleeping cat. But then the stroking started. His big toe stroking the top of my foot, the tops of my toes. Tickling against the scattering of hairs there. His whole foot gently covering mine, then insinuating its way underneath mine. Burrowing underneath the way I like to burrow under his body when we're in bed together. Occasionally it would leave me when Jim or I had to get up to get more beer or use the bathroom. But it would always return. It got so that I felt that I was the one with heightened senses. We played around with how close he could actually get without touching. Sometimes we rubbed, hard and writhing, the way we sometimes humped against each other until we both came, screaming each other's names. ... Huh, what? Oh, sorry. (blush) Where was I? Oh yeah, and sometimes the strokes were so soft and gentle and loving I wanted to cry, *after* I fucked his brains out, of course. 

The evening wore on, and we played hand after hand. All this time, of course, I'm having to pretend nothing is happening. Joking back and forth with the other guys, trading insults and, of course, having to figure out what to bet. Surprisingly, I was doing pretty well, money-wise. I was expecting to be losing big, not really having my whole mind on the game, but I was actually a little ahead. I think it must have been the fact that no matter what my hand was, I couldn't stop shaking. At first it was just a slight tremble that I managed to hide by clenching my hands together. But then it got noticeable. I think at first the other guys thought it was my tell. ... A tell? Oh, that's the involuntary tics you have when you have a good or bad hand. Shaking or scratching or fiddling with your hair or a making certain sound, like whistling for instance. Everyone has 'em. The really good poker players can figure out what they are and then bet accordingly. In my case, that night, by the end, my hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold the cards. But, as they soon found out, it had nothing to do with my hand. I think it threw them. Normally, if it's your tell, you shake only with one kind of hand, good or bad. But not me. Good, bad, indifferent, the shaking never stopped and so they didn't know *what* I had. 

And through it all, the caresses never stopped. Sometimes it was just toe against toe. Sometimes he stuck his whole foot up my pants leg. Occasionally we traded glances, but not too often because it was too damned distracting. Only because I knew him so well, did I know how aroused he was. Man, I know he knew how aroused I was! I was afraid that one of the times we looked at each other we wouldn't be able to stop and we'd shock everyone by shoving everything out of the way and fucking on the table, that's how close to the surface everything was! 

Then it happened. The thing I had been afraid of all evening. As it turns out, if I had just kept my damned mouth shut it might have been okay. (sigh) What can I say, I can barely keep my mouth shut under the best of circumstances ...Well anyway, it was Brown's turn to deal. 

He had dealt out the cards and we placed our first round of bets, then he was going around doling out replacement cards. Just as he got to me, Jim hit a particularly sensitive spot that usually is very ticklish. Normally I would have laughed and maybe tried to get away. This time, I was so turned on that I felt like I was about to explode in my pants, and remember, up to this point I've never touched my cock the whole evening. But *God*, that feeling was a sharp arrow straight to my groin! Needless to say, my attention wasn't significantly on the game. 

Not being entirely coherent at the time, I can't be sure, but I think the conversation went something like: 

"Blair, how many do you want? ... Blair!?" 

"Huh?" 

"How many? 

"What?" 

"*Cards*!?" 

"Oh, uh, yeah, um, sorry, um, how about two." 

"Geez, Hairboy, pay attention. What, you too busy playing footsie with Ellison or somethin'?" 

I jerked my foot away from Jim's so fast I'm surprised the friction didn't set the rug on fire. 

"What!? What are you talking about?" I tried to laugh it off but as soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake. These men are detectives for Christ's sake. They're trained to figure out clues. 

One: I've been shaking all evening, even though I'm not sick and the room is about eighty degrees. If I had been clever, at the beginning of the evening I would have claimed I was coming down with something, but even then I was too mind-fried with lust to think of it. 

Two: Jim and I have been exchanging these, what only can be described as, smoldering glances. And when we weren't doing that, we were pointedly *not* looking at each other. 

Three: The incredibly shocked look on my face, and my immediate denial. Trust me, when cops hear denial, they immediately start thinking guilt, and my face didn't help. 

Jim, bless his little Sentinel heart, wasn't giving them any help. 

The four of them exchanged glances for a second before finally some consensus seemed to be reached and they all turned to us with looks varying from puzzlement to enthusiastic curiosity to dubiousness. 

Simon, as always, led the way. 

"Okay, you two. What's going on?" 

Now I have this other look. My "innocent" look. Sometimes it works, usually with people who don't know me very well. Occasionally Jim lets me get away with it, the night of the Cop of the Year award being a memorable example. .. But not that night, not with Simon. At least not at first. 

"Knock it off, Sandburg. It's too late. Spit it out." 

I looked to Jim for help. This wasn't and couldn't be only my decision. He slipped his foot over mine again, reassuringly. 

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, sir." 

Blessed Protector to the rescue!! (laugh) 

Simon started to sputter something indignant, but Jim overrode him. 

"If there is anything going on, perhaps you should ask yourself if it's any of your business. Sir." 

Well, Simon may be a tough nut, but he has nothing on Jim when he's in his Blessed Protector mode. I put more strength into my innocent look and was soon rewarded by the four of them looking like ashamed school boys. 

We tried to get back into the game, but after another couple of hands it was clear that the night was over. That was fine with me. Not only had Jim spent the last few hands determinedly stroking that "hot spot" he had found earlier, but I kept thinking about the way he came to my rescue and I came to the conclusion that such loyalty deserved a reward. Which, of course, got me thinking about what *kind* of reward... Um, yeah. (laugh) 

Well, so that was the night of the toes. What?... What happened next? After they all left? ... Ah, my friend, (big grin) that's a story for another day.   
  


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